What Happened at the Wet T-Shirt Contest

I had discovered that I liked fucking Marcos, and that was the exact word for it, no detours or embellishments. I wasn’t interested in saying “making love” or any of those lukewarm formulas. I liked the way he held me at the brink, the way he entered me slowly and left me trembling, the way my body answered every thrust until we came together, no tricks.

The other thing, the camera being on, someone watching us, showing myself naked in front of a screen, I didn’t much care either way. But it turned him on, that was obvious, and seeing him so excited ended up exciting me too.

I was never entirely clear whether the game was his or my husband’s. Nor did I care all that much now that I had decided to have fun. Marcos was a box of surprises, and I was beginning to wait with curiosity for whatever new idea, whatever different boldness, crossed his mind each day.

One thing had become clear to me: deep down I liked putting myself on display, I liked men admiring me. That was why I felt a little uneasy when he suggested that I might enjoy fucking one of those strangers who drool the moment they see a woman’s body. He said it casually, like someone tossing out a seed and waiting to see whether it would sprout.

—Someday you’ll do it —he murmured—. Not today, but it’ll come.

I didn’t know what to answer. In truth I had already done it with him, so it wouldn’t be anything new. Unless he meant a stranger, someone with no name or familiar face, just for the pleasure of giving myself over. Exactly what my husband fantasized about, though he imagined it with someone he knew. Marcos, on the other hand, seemed willing to go much farther.

The idea he came up with that afternoon struck me as funny and baffling in equal measure. He wanted to take me to a wet T-shirt contest. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but I could guess: drenching girls so the transparent fabric would show what was underneath. One step beyond the camera, because now there would be a real audience, people breathing close by, not a cold lens on the other side of the room.

I’ll find the most suitable clothes and give him a surprise, I thought. Let him see I’m no prude, that I can show myself in front of a real audience and enjoy it. That was all. Or so I told myself.

***

I’d spent the whole siesta turning over what we’d do that night. It was obvious she’d enjoyed the afternoon, but I wanted to finish with something different, something more on the edge than the day before. While Lucía dozed on the lounger beside the pool, I opened my phone and started scouting unconventional places in the area. I found a curious one half an hour away, a roadside terrace that held wet T-shirt contests on summer weekends.

When she woke up and asked me about the plans, I told her to gauge her reaction and start preparing her.

—Less than half an hour from here there’s a terrace with a pool —I said—. They do wet T-shirt contests.

—You mean they let themselves get soaked so you can see everything underneath? —she asked, narrowing her eyes.

—More or less.

—Could be fun. Do you have to dress a certain way?

—I suppose with a T-shirt or a shirt that can get wet. Everything else, however each girl wants.

I explained that the poster didn’t make things very clear, it only promised prizes and fun, with girls going up on a platform so water could be poured over them. I’d never been to anything like it and didn’t know exactly how it worked. She agreed out of curiosity, and, she said, for me, so I could see other women showing off a bit even if they kept their T-shirts on. I laughed and assured her I was counting on her winning one of the advertised prizes, not to disappoint me.

When it came time to get ready, she rushed off to shower, determined to make a good impression if so many people were going to see her. Before she got in, I laid her down on the bed, naked as she was, held her legs apart, and buried my face between her thighs. I played with my tongue until I found the exact spot, licked and nibbled slowly until I felt her on the verge of breaking.

I didn’t want it to end there. On the contrary: I wanted us to arrive only halfway there, burning, wanting to finish what we’d started, waiting for her prize when we got back. So I pulled away, gave her a soft smack on the ass, and told her to hurry up, that I wasn’t quite sure where the place was and we couldn’t be late.

When she came out ready, she looked magnificent. A white crew-neck T-shirt that showed almost nothing, a short skirt, very short, and a little knit jacket that, according to her, was in case she got cold later from the damp.

***

The place was a roadside bar with a neon sign above the door, dozens of parked cars, and far too much noise inside. We went in before the show started, but the alcohol and shouting already had the atmosphere buzzing. People crowded around a wooden platform, almost all men, as expected. There were girls too, most of them young, scantily dressed, some already down to panties and thin T-shirts, waiting to be called as volunteers.

—Do we have to strip? —she asked me in my ear.

—I don’t think so. I guess they take off some clothes so they don’t soak them all. You wait, we’ll see. I’m here.

The host launched into an animated speech inviting them to compete in turns, so the platform wouldn’t fill up all at once. Only five or six went up, and then I nodded at her.

—Shall we?

She stood up, left me the little jacket in my hands, and went up calmly, amid the applause and shouts of those waiting by the stairs. They cheered her like the others, but with a different kind of enthusiasm: a grown woman, with curves, a lady’s air, ready to compete with the girls.

She was the only one who was still dressed. The others were already ready for the soaking. When she saw the first one drenched from head to toe, she looked for me, moved to the edge of the platform, unzipped the side of her skirt, and threw it to me amid fresh shouts. She ended up at the back of the line, waiting for her turn, half embarrassed, modest in a way that only made her more desirable.

I had eyes only for her. She made for a brutally erotic sight: her head slightly bowed, her hands covering her belly, waiting like someone accepting a sweet fate. The very thin sleeveless T-shirt wouldn’t survive the first pour without becoming completely transparent. Her hair was tied up, and she wore tiny black lace panties, minimal, drawing a perfect triangle in front and disappearing between her buttocks in back, making them taut and visible, without her realizing that was where she ought to be covering herself.

Her turn came. An assistant tipped her head and poured the first jug over her back, just like the others. The fabric clung to her skin, outlined the curve of her back, and made it clear, through the light, that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Another, with one of those beach water pistols, sprayed her from the front little by little, reloading and aiming again, until her whole chest was soaked. The shrunken T-shirt pulled backward, leaving the front taut, and her breasts were exposed for everyone to see, the nipples standing up hard against the wet fabric. Almost as naked as if she were wearing nothing, but with the added thrill of knowing she wasn’t.

The water guy moved from one to another, now on this one, now on that one, according to who seemed to need more showing off. The streams ran down the bodies and pooled on the platform. One girl, annoyed by her clothes, took off her T-shirt to the public’s howls for more. The boldest of them also got rid of her thong, and others copied her while the host kept egging them on nonstop.

***

Things were starting to get out of hand. An assistant was passing around swigs from a bottle, straight from the neck, to the girls who were already getting heated up. In the end, when Lucía was the only one still wearing her T-shirt, she took that off too and let it fall at her feet. Someone picked it up and had the decency to hand it to me when I asked for it.

The voting began, which amounted to nothing more than the crowd’s roar. The host went up to each girl with a watering can refilled by an assistant and poured water over her body, making it stand out under the spotlights, the skin gleaming as if coated in oil.

One girl took off her panties at that moment and the shrieks shot up. The others did the same, except for a fuller-figured one who was barely wearing a strip in front and another in back. I was dazed, overheated, focused only on her. When it was her turn, the host held her by the back so she wouldn’t step away and kept pouring water over her chest. And I wasn’t looking at her body, but at her face: flushed, her hair now loose, her eyes shining, one hand gripping her panties at the side while the crowd shouted for her to take them off.

It was a perfect spectacle. Seeing her like that, excited and serene at the same time, her hands steady, her expression concentrated, as if she couldn’t hear anyone. Until she found my gaze fixed on her. Then, with defiant calm, without getting up from the edge where she was leaning, she slowly slid them down, bunched between her thighs so wet they wouldn’t let her maneuver, until she flicked them aside with a couple of kicks of her feet.

I tried to get to that little garment, but it had already disappeared. I suppose some lucky bastard kept it as a souvenir of the woman he had naked within arm’s reach that summer night.

They stopped pouring water over her. She bounced on her feet, nervous at being watched by so many people, her breasts bobbing with every hop, her hard nipples betraying her arousal. A hand landed on her ass to guide her toward the center of the platform, where they were announcing the winners. When she saw herself beside the others, she seemed to settle, to realize where she was, and tried to cover herself a little while she searched for me with her eyes. She found me applauding like mad and smiled at me, confident.

I didn’t see how she managed to get down from the stage naked through the crowd. She came toward me through a huge commotion, and at times it looked like she wasn’t making any progress. I preferred to stay still so she wouldn’t lose me. When she got close, I saw the hands all over her, her body almost hidden under a sea of fingers squeezing her breasts, her ass, her belly. And her red face, her smile of satisfaction, made it clear she was enjoying it.

Even as she threw herself into my arms, a few hands took advantage of those last seconds. As soon as she pressed against me, I put the little jacket over her shoulders, and the people, seeing that someone was protecting her, began to step aside.

She laughed in my arms, from pure nerves, from relief, maybe at realizing what she had just done. The jacket barely covered her, my hand holding it in place so it wouldn’t slip, and her skin still felt the touch of those who had passed by her side.

We went home with her covered only by that garment, because she didn’t want to get the skirt wet. She laughed like a madwoman, peals of euphoric laughter, her breasts swaying with every bump while I tried to drive without taking my eyes off the road too much. In the back seat, two bottles of good whiskey: her prize. And as we drove along the dark road, I was already looking for a vacant lot where I could pull over and take her without waiting to get home.